In a common understanding, my brain doesn’t function properly. I see and hear things that don’t exist in the outside world. My mind creates and populates worlds fit only for imagination, and I can spend hours weaving through their streets and forests to try and understand the occupants of the fabricated existence. I don’t know how to not be this way.

I was terrified of telling people how daily life differed for me. So much of what I’ve studied from the people I’ve known and interacted with has allowed me to act normally in social settings. But the person I portray is only a part of me; a part I can access and a role I can play in a passable manner when needed. It’s not my definitive personality, though.

Who I am is unknown to almost everyone. Even those closest to me have been spared the tailspins into delusions that transport me into different realities I then turn into stories or let play out like movies in my mind. I’d love to say they were all enjoyable, but that would be a lie. As often as they are a delight to indulge in, they can also be a terrifying delve into the darker parts of my subconscious.

Resting beneath the surface is a near-constant fear that feeds these darker stories that linger in my mind like the air around us. I fear being seen beyond what I show everyone. I fear what people will think if they see me having an episode or am so engaged with a fantasy that it’s hard for me to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s only in my mind. I fear everyone and what they might do to me.

When you’re a kid and the only people you see that may represent how you feel on TV are being locked away in mental asylums or being treated as the freak to be feared, you build a wall around the version of you that could spark the same reactions from even your own family. I’ve been afraid of the world for as long as I can remember. And I’m afraid the world is terrified of me as well.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will never be able to change who I am and how my brain operates. Medication helps keep the darker aspects of my condition at bay for the most part, but I still seem to exist in the grasp of a separate state of mind. Feeling normal is a passing sensation that I get from time to time, but even then, I know that I don’t belong in that world.

On Sunday, I ran my first mountain trail race in almost two years. It only took a few miles for the pack to thin out and I found myself alone. Adrift in the woods, my mind began to create a separate reality. I placed a small branch of pine needles in my hat to appease the forest and the creatures that appeared in my mind. The traumerites, mystic beings that exist within the winds and spark the worst emotions that inhabit your thoughts. The logdunes, minuscule creatures that burrow into downed trees during the daylight to hide, emerging from the shadows as the sun sets to let their luminescent tails guide the paths of the beasts that wander the mountains at night. The cone-ivores, an aggressive species of pinecones that dive bomb from the canopy above in an attempt to nibble on your flesh.

The list of creatures I documented from my imagination reached almost twenty. Each of them seemed to have some semblance of reality in my mind. None of them truly exist in any way. I know they don’t exist. But when I’m alone on the trails, I also know they’re there, scurrying about around me as if I were transported to a different realm and am now just a minor part of a greater fantasy.

Sometimes I wish I could bring people into these worlds. It’s why I write. If any good can come from my condition, I hope it’s the chance to show everyone the beauty that can come from a broken mind.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to deal with the pain that comes with the beauty, though. It crumbles me at night as I lay awake wondering what the next day will bring forth from my mind. I had an idea of what progress would look like as I’ve sought help to maintain stability. But I’m not sure anymore. I fear being overprescribed with medications that inhibit my ability to see other worlds. I fear being underprescribed and being forced to reckon with the darkness on my own. I try to live in the moments in between.

Above all the fears is a singular goal: stay alive.

To achieve this goal I have to ration my energy in the best possible ways. To keep my worlds alive, I’ll use every word I write to document their existence and try to share it with the world should I be given the chance. Should the chance never come, at least I’ll know I’ve tried.

I’ll still be wandering around the running world, racing and directing, spying on new creatures, and documenting their habits. And should you ever want to see what I see, feel free to ask. I might not be able to show them to you, but I can do my best to make them vivid in your imagination.

In 1995 a movie of epically good/bad proportions was released. Mortal Kombat had become a sensation in the gaming world just a few years before, instantly capturing the hearts of young fans while repulsing their parents. If you were like me, you fell in love with the grotesque nature of the game in its twisted and opposite take on violence in comparison to platform games like Super Mario Bros.

With such a huge following in a short amount of time, the game garnered the attention of the film industry desperate to make a few dollars off of its success. And on an $18 million budget, they raked in over $120 million worldwide in box office sales. This movie made bank.

And no, it wasn’t a good script with great acting. It was a bad script with cheesy acting that took multiple liberties with a source material that itself made little sense. So why did it do so well, and why am I even referencing it? Because it knew what it was and it went all in. The actors, the director, the writers, everyone involved just said “Fuck it” and committed. How else could you pull off a scene where one of your leading actors drops into a split and punches a ten-foot-tall, four-armed monster in the crotch?

This all-in commitment is necessary to make a bad movie feel good, and a trail run worth running.

If you were to take the trail description for a race, map out your emotions per mile from the cloud scraping highs and inconceivable lows, and place every word from your inner consciousness into a script, it would read like a cheesy movie. And the only way it works, the only way you get to the finish line, is if you commit.

Half-hearted thinking will break down your spirit when the newness of a race wears off and the pain begins. Build a character for yourself to play. Deify the finish line and place the trail in your way as a monster to conquer. Commit to yourself and your script.

If ever you need encouragement before a race, do what I do. Find your dusty copy of the greatest bad movie of your childhood (rent it if you somehow don’t own it), push play, and watch what crazy commitment to a blatantly bad idea looks like. And when you get to the finish and the credits begin to roll on your race, you’ll know within your spirit that you are the chosen one. You will face your destiny and cross that finish line. Or, DNF like Sub Zero did while giving it your all (personal heroes don’t always win).

 Either way, the memories will at least be worth rewatching over and over for years to come, cheesiness and all.  

I was fortunate growing up. Our little suburb was tucked out in rural nowhere, and the developer left a large chunk of wooded area in the middle to match the hundreds of acres of undeveloped woods between us and the closest interstate (I-85 represent!). With this setup, there was little reason to use the roads other than as a quick shortcut to the next trail the kids of the area made to get to a friends’ house. In these woods, forts were built, unofficial races were run, wars were fought, and young love sparked.

The woods are a magical place with untapped potential for the imagination. This is why I love trail running. This is also why I worry about trail runners.

I understand the draw to take your runs seriously. It’s a potentially dangerous scenario that you never even considered the damage you could incur as a child, and you still have responsibilities outside of the woods to keep in mind. From this necessary acknowledgment we must make, stem a plethora of adultizing to our passion. As rules and boundaries continue to grow trail running into a sport, we can become obsessed with pace, place, and a particular race. We also lose sight of the pure joy running in the woods can bring just from taking a moment to remember your running carefree in the woods.

For many, they can read the Bible and find comfort or perceived wisdom from passages such as 1 Corinthians 13:11, the “When I became a man, I set aside childish ways.”  

I’ve never much enjoyed this line of reasoning in philosophy (theological or secular). While there are things we must understand as we grow, responsibilities that can no longer be taken care of for us but must be done by ourselves, the notion is far too combative to something integral to our path to contentment. I can be both childish and responsible, and often find much more joy when doing so.

I have yet to meet an adult that when pressed, won’t admit that they look into the mirror expecting to see a youthful interlocutor staring back at them – the younger, more childish, version of themselves, still ready to spark vibrancy in their life if unleashed.

There are so many of our daily rituals that society refuses to let us act odd or randomly when completing. We have to be precise, we have to be sober-minded, and we have to look at children as infantile in their methods of fun. Even though, when they get done running through the woods, no watch, no crowds, no concern whatsoever for anything other than the experience of the moment, they have the smile we’re all chasing down with each run.

“I’m in my room making cardboard castles with shoestring rope.

Soup spoon drawbridge, a tinfoil moat.

I’m still dreaming after all these years.” Watsky – Cardboard Castles

It hurts, in so many ways. But it doesn’t change, no matter the willpower you deign to throw at it. Our bodies, our effort, our lives are on a direct path toward decay.

So, what do you do now? Do you fight the dying embers of reality? Do you acquiesce to the compulsive fear of the darkness beyond? Or, do you take a breath, accept the lack of power over fate, and carry on with a smile?

I’m not sure what you choose and, depending on the day, I’m not always certain which one I choose. I want it to always be the calm stoic who wins out, viewing my fate as one amongst many, an endless passage of life connected to its surroundings. But some days I feel like I should be special. Some days, I feel like I shouldn’t have to accept the downward trend of life into the absence of consciousness.

This ever-swaying pendulum is a constant in my training as well. The peaks and valleys glare at me from my Garmin and Strava accounts as I look back to find my progression flowing alongside my mental state. I’m sure it’s possible to separate the two, but for me, my running is a direct correlation to my outlook on life. When I first got into running cross country as a kid, it was to find my way onto a team in school. I hoped my participation among the other popular kids in sports would bring with it the ability to act as they did in the hallways and around our classmates.

It didn’t. Four letters from three sports and in academics at three different high schools offered nothing but trinkets to stare at from time to time and wonder what they were worth. There was no joy in my effort dispensed, only desire for something more, something unattainable – other people’s acceptance, as well as my own.

I was constantly in pursuit of finding my flaws. At that time, they were ever-present and it was a pervasive notion that if I broke myself down enough, eventually I would find a foundation worth building back anew from. If this sounds familiar to anyone reading it, then you probably know that you never reach that point. There’s always more of yourself to be broken down and ridiculed.

In life, and in running, my mental state didn’t begin to change for the better until I released the pressure cooker churning my emotions. There is a place for goals and desires in life and training. We need direction and purpose and these can be hard to focus on without the drive goal orientation offers. The times in which I can distinguish between emotions and running are my most productive because I can clearly state to myself my abilities and what my performance should accurately look like. In these moments I feel accomplished, and I feel like I can finally pursue the goals I’ve laid out.

But what is the final purpose of a goal? Is it truly just to reach a certain mileage? Is it just about shaving a couple of minutes off a marathon time? Or, is it about you, that face you see each day in the mirror, changing over time, but still desperate to find acceptance within yourself or from others, clinging on to an image of yourself long lost to time?

We don’t have much life left and a good goal based on bad reasoning can eat away at the pleasure we’re allotted before we drift away into the night. Break past the surface answer to your goals and find the foundation behind them. If it’s faulty, you’ll never be at peace with your progress. We all deserve peace.

One day we will be raising our parting glass, and saying our goodbyes. Take the time to find peace with yourself now, so you can say goodbye to your life with the reflection and hallowed remembrance it deserves.

But since it fell into my lot, that I should rise and you should not.

I’ll gently rise and softly call, good night and joy be to you all.

There’s a brief moment of terror you may find yourself in on the trails, where you’ve misstepped and your body loses balance and begins wavering. Your stomach may drop. Your mind may rush through the tragedy that could unfold. But most likely you’ll experience nothing more than a grin as you regain control and carry on.

Since I was a kid, I can’t remember a week in which I haven’t felt that trepidation and wobbling notion while interacting with the world around me. Reality rarely makes sense to me. I can see the constructs and building blocks that create the opaque and cooperative world before me, but I lack the inherent ability to interact with it appropriately. I have questions that appear laughable to those the answers come naturally to. I lack the awareness to understand proper social constructs without spending ample amounts of time observing others glide through them without a moment’s thought. I’m odd.

Medication has helped me adapt to the unruly discourse taking place within the padded walls of my mind and helps me calm the nerves that grow weary of trying to learn how to be a more ‘normal’ person. I don’t use the word as a pejorative, so please understand I say it in many ways as a compliment. I envy the competence of people to interact without constantly cycling through variable scenarios for hours to try and approach the actual event with the best possible words to use for the desired outcome – “Small black coffee, please.”.

Therapy has helped me confront the damaging thoughts that have rendered many of my years to time’s waste bin without the need for a footnote or explanation of some great occurrence. With it, I’ve managed to garner the courage to strive for dreams I kept locked away. With it, I’ve even become somewhat adept at expressing myself to people without the horrific terrors that plagued my thoughts.

I’ve accepted the fact that my brain does not, and most likely will never, work properly. And that’s ok. I suffer from depression, anxiety, and a couple of other issues that make life a little more complicated than I would like. This is me, though. I can accept it and handle the problems with the patience and understanding that help me move forward, or pretend I’m not broken and ignore the monsters festering beneath the surface. It’s been an uncomfortable journey to befriend the monsters, but after listening to them for years, I’ve grown quite fond of their plight and even use them to my advantage when possible. From these depths, I’ve found talents that I never thought I could tap.     

I even enjoy talking now. I also enjoy writing, as it was my primary means of communication to the void within my notebooks for two decades. With these two methods, I’ve found a voice and a personality that I subjugated and forced into hiding to avoid the hazardous land mines of social interactions that left me alone, save for the family that just accepted how weird I was.

Now, there are brief moments when at a race that I begin speaking to the crowd of runners before Rory and me, as they await whatever instructions or advice we are about to offer. My stomach drops as your eyes fall upon us. My mind begins to shout and scream within the confines of the neurons firing back and forth in hopes I’ll flee to safety. But ultimately, I grin and accept the moment for what it is. With Rory by my side, and Jenn standing within eyesight, I regain control and carry on.

I hope that if you deal with any similar issues, you’ve found your path to acceptance and progress through the pain.

“It’s ok. Goonies make mistakes. Just don’t make anymore.”

You’re going to screw up during a run. At some point, you’re going to make a mistake and need to recalibrate, adjust, or bring yourself back from the brink of disaster. It’s ok.

Plans are amazing and I make quite a few of them – from how I’ll clean my house on a day off to how I’ll handle my gel intake during a long run, I’ve got a plan for that. But in nearly every scenario the plan will inevitably break down and need adjusting. It’s not so difficult when my dogs come charging in covered in mud and make me refocus from laundry to mopping the floors. It is difficult when I’m twenty miles deep and realize I’m dehydrated and the cramps are setting in as my body begins to revolt.

Mistakes happen. What do you do next?

First, take a moment to be frustrated with yourself. Emotions aren’t the enemy. It’s how you handle them and how much control you give them that can be the problem. Kick a pine cone, shout ‘fuck you’ at a squirrel nearby, or hurl that pine cone you just kicked at said squirrel because it probably deserves it anyway (squirrels are evil and I stand by this statement).

Now that the frustration has passed, plan you’re way out of the hole. If it is dehydration, go easy. Don’t down a bunch of water at once and think that it will magically correct the deficit. Sip on your water continuously while taking a couple of gels over the next hour. Slow down your pace to avoid overexertion that would make your body pump out more sweat and keep you from regaining balance. And if you happen upon an aid station during this time, take a load off and chat for a while to let your body do what it does best in the background without you getting in the way.

Mistakes will change the course of your plan and will almost inevitably affect the outcome you had been anticipating. But adaptation is necessary. Carrying on through mistakes is how we learn.

And know it’s ok to screw up, because why the hell shouldn’t it be.

I’m betting money you’re not a professional runner because the vast majority of us aren’t. You do not get paid to be in perfect shape or to spend hours grueling over your training plan to try to find the weak spots.

Goonies make mistakes. And if trail runners aren’t grown-up Goonies chasing down One-Eyed Willie’s treasure, then I don’t know what the hell we are. However you choose to describe running – sport, activity, mud stomping fun – we are still adults playing in the woods while the rest of the world stares at us like we’re the weird kids your parents made you play with (hands up if you’re that kid… Our parent’s made Rory play with me).

Whatever happens, whatever tries to drag you down and destroy your plans, you can make it through. Because Goonies might make mistakes, but Goonies never say die!